


A Throat Full of Thorns

by feralhumours



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Android trauma, Bottom Hank, Established Relationship, M/M, Power Dynamics, Romance, Top Connor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-10-23 06:03:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17677829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feralhumours/pseuds/feralhumours
Summary: It's Connor's birthday, and Hank buys him a bouquet of roses. Who doesn't like roses?Connor doesn't. This is news to the both of them.--Or: Where Connor didn't entirely leave his baggage at the door when he became deviant.





	1. Bloom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kales](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kales/gifts).



> A fic for the lovely Kales!!!! <3<3

            Humans place much emphasis on the passing of a year.

            Connor had seen it when ringing in 2039, hanging back against the wall and watching the DPD new years party with interest. He had annoyed Hank into abstaining from alcohol that night, and the man had grouchily hung back with him, clutching a Coke. The success of the revolution, though, had him high spirits and he didn’t _truly_ seem to mind. There would be days, later, where Hank would struggle with the bottle again, but Connor had been grateful for the respite that night.

            Some of the officers made resolutions; most didn’t keep them past the first month. Hank himself had made none.

            Connor found the whole practice fascinating.

            “ _You gonna make any_?” asked Hank.

            “ _I don’t know_ ,” he’d said. “ _What kind of resolutions are suitable for an android_?”

            “ _Shit, I don’t know either_ ,” Hank had chuckled. “ _Most humans just try to lose weight or eat better. Couple of years ago, Chris said he was gonna get out more – and now he’s got a baby. Make it whatever you want_.”

            “ _I guess I will try to keep up regular maintenance, and not get lazy.”_

            “ _Can you guys_ get _lazy?_ ”

            Connor had grinned. “ _I suppose we will find out. It’s a new era, Hank._ ”

            Then January had seen them coming together unexpectedly – Connor moving in, a fraught argument Hank’s bathroom, and a kiss on the deck in Hank’s backyard, watching the fire crackle in a pit and the snow turning to ice in the ridges of their shoes. He still remembers the stars that night, and the quiet sounds of Hank’s neighborhood.

            “ _We barely know each other_ ,” Hank had said, playing with one of Connor’s hands. He’d wiggled Connor’s smallest finger and added: “ _Fuck, we met, what…three months ago?_ ”

            “ _Technically, I’ve known you most of my life_ ,” Connor had quipped, drawing back his dermal layer and watching as Hank fiddled with the ridges on his knuckles.

            “ _Shit,_ _that sounds even worse_.”

            “ _Hank,_ ” he remembers, at the time, how delicate the moment felt. His voice had been tremulous beyond his control, and perhaps it was the weakness in it that made Hank relent.

            “ _I’m just saying…_ ”

            “ _Trust in my choices_ ,” he’d said; implored, more like. He might’ve resorted to begging, if it had come to that. “ _And trust that I know what I want._ ”

            Hank had studied him, thinking so deeply that lines formed on his face: shadows pooled around his eyes and in the ditch between his brows, and his mouth tightened on its way to a frown. His looked very much his age in that moment – a man who’d lived so much more of life than Connor could have conceived of.

            “ _Can we please try?_ ” Connor had whispered.

            That night they had gone to sleep – and stasis – in Hank’s bed and woke to a morning that would be the first of many. Connor hadn’t considered that deviancy would bring with it romance, but he had found that he enjoyed getting to see Hank’s sleepy face in the sunbeams and kissing his jaw, feeling the rough scrape of his beard. Hearing Hank grousing about his morning breath, of which Connor had no opinion on.  

            Eight months since then. And now:

            “It’s gonna be your birthday, huh?” asks Hank, coming to a stop at a red light. A family crosses the street, the children with ice cream cones in their hands.

            Summer brings with it pleasant sights: today, Hank wears one of his favourite t-shirts, and the paleness of his arms nearly gleams, sunlight caught in the grey fuzz. Spots of age already dot his hands, loose on the steering wheel. Connor resists the urge to reach over and run his palm – his bare chassis – against his skin.

            “August, right?”    

            The birthday is a technicality, but one that’s important to humans. Connor nods. He likes seeing Hank’s eyes light up in interest, in things that make sense to him: Connor is android, and that is strange, but Connor has a _birthday_. And birthdays are something Hank understands.

            Connor never imagined himself having something like a birthday.

            “I guess so,” he says, thinking on it. “Cyberlife called it an ‘activation date’, though.”

            Hank scoffs. “CyberLife can suck my cock.”

            “I didn’t think CyberLife was your type,” says Connor, wry.

            “They’re not,” he says, then pointedly glances Connor’s way. “But their androids are pretty easy on the eyes.”

            He chuckles at his own line, and Connor indulges him with a smile. The light turns green, and Hank’s foot presses hard on the pedal to accelerate. Connor has suggested that he should get a new car, but Hank’s eyes have a tendency to glaze over when he does. Stubborn in so many ways, and yet giving in others.

            “Anyway, fuck that ‘activation date’ bullshit,” Hank says, waving a hand dismissively. “A birthday’s a birthday. We should probably do something, since it’s your first.”

            “I don’t really know what to do for a birthday,” Connor says.

            “Hell, me neither,” Hank says as he shoulder checks and changes lanes. “I haven’t done anything for mine in years. We’ll figure something out.”

            Connor hums, and the conversation peters off as Hank mangles the lyrics to the music on his radio.

*

            “Happy birthday,” says Hank.

            The roses are vibrant. They are beautiful, thoughtful.

            As Connor holds them, he thinks they must be heavier than they look. Nothing else can explain why his hands feel like they are leaden with their weight, as though he’s cradling cinder blocks he’s about to strap to his feet to drag him down to the bottom of the river.

            “I…”

            Hank raises an eyebrow, frowning as he crosses his arms. “You’re not into flowers?”

            Connor never had any kind of opinion on flowers. Or so he thought.

            He can tell Hank is concerned, but something in his processors stutter. For a moment – a heart-rending second – he thinks Hank’s voice is threaded with disapproval. He thinks he feels an artificial breeze on the back of his bare neck, and thinks he sees a white trellis, threaded with roses, in the corner of his eye.

            A rowboat on a pond, too. Fish in the water. 

            It happens in only a second, but it leaves a trace of itself in the tingling of Connor’s fingers, which tighten on the stem of the bouquet. He is trying hard not to accidentally crush the whole thing in his fists.  

            “Connor?”

            Connor shakes his head, and the motion smears away the sight of the garden. The walls of Hank’s living room coalesce into his vision, and he feels something like gratefulness at the change. “It’s nothing,” he says. “…I was just lost in thought.”

            He comes close and kisses Hank on the cheek, wanting to touch him, to confirm that the man is real and standing right there. “Thank you, Hank,” he says. “They’re pretty.”

            Hank doesn’t look convinced, his instincts keen, but he thankfully doesn’t push for answers. It’s not that Connor enjoys taking advantage, but for once Hank’s poor handling of emotional communication works in his favour.

            “…Sure,” Hank nods. “Whatever you say.”

            He seats himself on the couch and Connor goes into the kitchen and sets the roses into a water jug in place of a vase. Looking at the way the petals spill over the sides, he considers trying to arrange them to sit nicer. But the thought of touching them makes him pause, remembering the sight of slender hands adorned in white jewelry.              

            He decides against it.

            Dinner is spent talking about other things, a concerted effort on Connor’s part. He also maneuvers Hank to eat on the couch, wanting to avoid sitting too close to the roses. Hank doesn’t seem to notice anything amiss and Connor is glad for it, losing himself in the man’s complaining about happenings at the office or the guy in the parking lot at the grocery store whose car was parked on two lines. The chatter draws him away from eerie way the flowers make him feel.

            As does the sex afterward. Connor almost wants to draw it out, but Hank isn’t in the mood for something prolonged, falling asleep right after. Connor goes into stasis with his nose buried in Hank’s hair, mouth at his nape.

            Androids don’t dream, but their minds do wander.

            There had been no smells in the zen garden, no data points to denote such a thing. No alerts in his pressure sensors, either, to convey the presence of things touched; he had held Amanda’s umbrella, rowed the little boat in the pond, and tapped the exit stone with nothing but a blip in his processers.

            He imagines himself back there, now, but instead of illusions there are realities. The water wets the hem of his jeans and the grass parts around his feet. If he wanted to, he could pluck the koi from the pond and feel its slick scales jerk against his palms.

            The roses smell, too. They smell strong enough to make him recoil.

            It shouldn’t, because androids don’t have connections to smells. Decaying human bodies don’t make him flinch, and he’s never shared Hank’s fascination with the scent of grilled meat.

            But the roses – the roses make his teeth grind together in his jaw. The sensors in his nose _sting_.   

            It isn’t the true garden, he knows. He hasn’t been back there since escaping through the backdoor. But as a construction of his imagination it is awfully, awfully close.

            There is no Amanda here, but he feels her presence all the same; her disapproval, her silent and judging stare. The weight of her frown.

            He comes out of stasis feeling unsettled, as though he’s been picked up and shaken so hard his internal components have come loose. Hank sleeps soundly next to him, so he removes himself from the bed as quietly as he can. He tucks the blanket back into place and sweeps a light hand against the man’s hair, and then he makes his way out of the bedroom.

            The roses are still there, a bright blotch of red against the unassuming colours of Hank’s kitchen. Like blood, seeping through a bandage.

            He gives them a wide berth, eyes on the spread of the petals and the edges of the stems as he walks over to the cabinet and takes out a packet of thirium. As he drinks, he doesn’t take his eyes off the bouquet. He can’t. He imagines that if he does, the roses will turn into mouths and swallow him whole, trapping him into a prison of flowers and ponds and calculating disapproval.

            There’s an absurd, discomforting desire to take them out back and hurl them into the garbage bin. He finds himself thinking that if they were out of his sight he might feel better, and he knows the thought is ridiculous.

            It’s irrational, and deviant or not, Connor doesn’t care for irrational.

            He settles for taking the dishcloth from the oven’s handle and settling them over the bouquet, instead; gently, so he doesn’t crush the petals. He always wakes earlier than Hank does, so he’ll remove the towel in the morning before the man can see it. The last thing he wants is to hurt Hank’s feelings because of his own unexplainable discomfort.

            At some point, he knows he will need to figure this out.

            For now, he feels at ease knowing that the roses are out of sight, covered in a shroud.

*

            He does it for three days – covering the roses and waking early to remove the cloth – before Hank notices something amiss.

            They are on the couch, watching a documentary on marine life. Or, Hank is; Connor watches the roses out of the corner of his eye. His aural processors pick up all the noise from the television, but he thinks that he hears feminine voice in the distance, murmuring in tones of disapproval. Telling him that he has disappointed. That he has – 

            “Something up with you?” Hank asks. He squints in suspicion, the glow from the television lighting up his eyes, blue and clear. “You’ve been acting kinda weird. Catch a virus or something?”

            “I don’t get viruses, Hank,” says Connor, gaze snapping from the roses to him. “I’m not a _smartphone_.”

            It comes out of him more clipped than he intended it to. He knows Hank doesn’t mean anything by it, when he makes those jokes; he _knows_ it and most of the time he can give as good as he gets, teasing Hank about his multitude of human weaknesses.

            But today, he finds he can’t stand to hear it. He thinks Hank’s voice might sound right at home in the garden, amidst the sounds of fish swimming in a pond and a breeze drifting through grass. Telling Connor that he must work harder, that he mustn’t forget his mission. His place.

            Connor glances toward the kitchen again, at the haunting spot of red on the dinner table. No one has tended to them in three days.

            Hank grunts. “Shit, relax.”

            “I am relaxed.”

            “Doesn’t look that way to me.”

            “No offence, but between the two of us I’d trust my abilities of perception over _yours_.”

            Hank stands up, and Connor blurts: “Where are you going?”

            “Out,” says Hank, rolling his eyes and waving a hand. “Feelin’ a little crowded in here. Go have a nap or something, and take that stick out of your ass, will you?”

            Hank grabs his keys from the table and unceremoniously walks out the door.

            A manta ray glides through the water on screen, narrated by a dull human voice.

            Guilt coats itself over Connor’s body, heavy and uncomfortable. He doesn’t move from his spot on the couch, and glances over to where Sumo lies on the dog bed, big-eyed and curious.

            “I’m sorry,” he says to the dog, in lieu of having Hank’s presence. It was the difference of a few minutes. If he had been faster, Hank could’ve heard it, and maybe Connor wouldn’t feel so off balance.

            “I don’t know what came over me.”

            Sumo closes his eyes, resuming his nap. It is a while before Connor gets up.


	2. Stem

            Connor doesn’t feel up to moving. Instead, he lays on his spot on the couch and stares at the television, caught up in his thoughts. Perhaps it’s lethargy, or something in the way the roses have been making him feel. He considers it, but he knows it’s because he doesn’t like arguing with Hank.

            Not that it was a true argument. Even still, it leaves him feeling listless; he hadn’t been in control of himself, and _that_ he likes least of all. 

            Sumo eventually gets up and moves to lie in the kitchen. Connor hopes the dog isn’t just sick of his moping.

            Hank comes home in the late afternoon clutching a takeout bag and a cup of soda. He tosses the keys onto the table and makes his way to the kitchen with lumbering steps.  

            Connor had been cleaning the joints in his chassis, working on the crooks in his arm. So far, he has kept up his resolution of regular maintenance; a small thing, but it makes him feel proud. At the sight of Hank, he carefully sets aside his tools and allows his dermal layer to fuse back on.

            “Welcome back,” he says. A little cautious.

            “Hey.”

            Hank sits himself down at the table and pulls a burger box out of the bag. He doesn’t look angry, but he doesn’t make an effort to look Connor’s way, either.

            Coming close, Connor settles his hands on the back of one of the chairs. “I apologize for earlier,” he says. He looks at Hank, and only at Hank. He resolutely does not look at the flowers. He doesn’t want to let the sight of them poison the atmosphere again.  

            Nodding, Hank takes a bite. “Okay,” he says around his mouthful.

            Connor watches Hank swallow, and then take a sip of his drink.

            “You gonna tell me what that was all about?” asks Hank, finally, after a moment. He looks up at Connor with a pointed gaze.

            Making a point to shrug, Connor says, “I was in a bad mood.”

            Close enough to the truth, for now. He figures it should be enough. Maybe once he figures out what’s causing the blip in his systems, he’ll have a better answer for them both.  

            Hank hums. “That all? Doesn’t seem like you.”

            “Yes.”

            Looking him up and down, Hank says nothing for a long, agonizing moment. Connor stares right back at him, loathe to glance away and appear like he’s hiding something, or that he’s unsure of his own answer. Eventually, Hank refocuses back onto his food.

            “If you say so.”

            Hank lets it go, and Connor is glad for it. Sometimes Hank can be extraordinarily difficult; other times, life with him has a comforting simplicity.

            Taking a seat at the table, Connor watches him eat. Still, he doesn’t look at the roses.

*

            That weekend, Hank takes him out – to properly do something for Connor’s birthday, he says, but Connor gets the impression Hank wants to steamroll over the awkwardness of the not-argument in the living room. He doesn’t complain, glad for the distraction.

            He has continued to place the cloth over the bouquet at night, and yet the uneasiness lingers.

            They go to an eccentric, vintage-style cinema and catch a screening of an old “buddy cop” film for the establishment’s “nostalgia week” – the appeal of which Hank explains poorly. But Connor enjoys it, slowly finding that fictitious depictions of law enforcement are becoming a favourite of his. Coming out of the theater, he makes a note to himself to compile a list of films and books to investigate later. He tells Hank as much.

            “Guess you’ve found yourself your first real hobby, huh?”

            The thought makes him pause. Something like satisfaction suffuses him, and he murmurs, “Yes…I guess so.”

            Walking close to Hank, their arms brushing, he adds: “I like it.”

            “Thank God,” says Hank. “Now I can watch my games without you hovering and asking questions all the time.”

            “You don’t like my company?”

            “A guy’s gotta get some alone time.”

            Connor grins. “All you have to do is say something, Hank. It’s not hard.”

            “Yeah, but then you get that big-eyed look and I feel like I’ve just kicked my dog.”

            “How sensitive of you.”

            “I know, regular fucking bleeding heart, that’s me.”

            It’s a beautiful afternoon, warmer than usual. Hank parked his car several blocks away so that they could walk, because Connor insists on Hank having his exercise. He has dampness gathering in the underarms of his loose t-shirt, and he routinely sweeps his hair back from his face, forehead shining. As they cross the street and make their way toward the park, Hank grips the top of his collar and fans himself.

            They pass a row of planters nearly bursting with flowers. Connor studies them, takes in the lovely blur of pinks and oranges and yellows; there isn’t a rose in sight, of course, and he marvels at his own calmness.

            What is it about roses? What is it about his own memories, and his own lack of control over them?

            He considers that he might have to run a diagnostic, soon.

            Connor glances at Hank. Their steps are in sync, strides mirrored. Hank has his hands in his pockets, now, and he gazes unseeingly in the distance, walking on auto-pilot. The sunlight makes the grey of his hair nearly white, and Connor is reminded of how old he is, how much he’s seen in his life.

            “Hank,” he starts.

            “Hm?”

            Why not?

            Why not reach out for a piece of that wisdom, while they are here and enjoying a quiet moment?

            “Can I…ask you something?”

            At his hesitance, Hank finally looks his way. “Shoot.”

            Connor takes a moment to think how he wants to approach this, before asking: “How do you manage your unexplainable and negative emotions?”

            Hank’s brows climb up his forehead. “Fuck, you don’t go for light chit chat, do you?”

            “We could talk about something else, if you want…”

            He hopes Hank won’t take the offer. He finds he desperately wants the man’s counsel: Hank is one of the most emotional people he knows – surely he of all people would have insight that Connor would find useful.

            Shaking his head, Hank says, “Getting the feeling you’ll fixate on this if we don’t.”

            “I don’t ‘fixate’.”

            “Sure you do,” mutters Hank. “Kind of part of the whole ‘android’ thing, isn’t it?”

            The way he says it isn’t cruel, or even teasing. Still, Connor almost bristles – but he clamps down on the urge to get defensive. They are having a nice afternoon, and Connor wants to talk about things that _matter_.

            “Do you have an answer for me, or not?” he asks, instead, keeping his voice as light as he can.

            Sounds rumble in Hank’s throat: a hum, a purr, a grumble. Some meeting of the three.

            “This about that hissy fit you had a few days ago?”

            “I’d hardly call it a _fit_ , Hank.”

            Hank snorts.

            Letting him consider his answer, Connor says nothing as they walk. After a few more paces, the planters far behind them, Hank clears his throat.

            “I don’t know what to tell you,” he says. “You know I’m not good at the negative emotions, anyway. I’m not gonna pretend like I’m an angel to deal with most of the time.”

            Connor almost interrupts, but Hank keeps talking. “As for the unexplainable – fuck, _life_ is unexplainable. If you could boil everything you felt down to brass tacks and had a handle on that shit, you think humans would still be such a goddamn mess all the time?”

            He barks in laughter – mocking himself, his species.

            Frustrated, Connor asks, “But don’t you _try_? How do you handle it when you start feeling…out of control?”

            Sobering, Hank crosses his arms and looks considering. “Shit’s different for everyone,” he says. “Nobody knows anything about anything, and everyone handles that the best they can.”

            He continues, “When Cole died –”

            Connor schools his face. It isn’t often that Hank will bring up his son, even now.

            “– my wife and I took it differently, y’know,” he doesn’t make eye contact, too lost in memories. Connor watches his profile and feels something in his chest ache; his pump – his copy of a heart – maybe, or perhaps something altogether more intangible. His soul, if he has one of those. “Handled the aftermath differently, too.  

            “I didn’t want to be around Cole’s stuff,” his lips tighten, inching closer to a scowl. “Couldn’t stand to be near all his clothes and toys. But Laurel couldn’t stand to be _away_ from them. After the accident, she spent a lot of days in his room just…existing.” 

            “And you?” asks Connor, whisper-quiet. Reverent for this look into Hank’s life before he ever entered the picture.

            “I’d go to bars. Stay late at work.” Not a surprise, but it makes Connor feel solemn to hear it anyway. “The house was too much. Sometimes I’d wake up – and for a _second_ –” he makes a pinching gesture with his fingers, as though plucking that moment in time out of the air. Holding it in his grasp and gazing at it for answers to old questions. “I wouldn’t remember, and then I’d expect to hear him running around in the hall or popping out in the corner of my eye. But then I’d fucking remember again.”

            A moment of silence hangs between them. Eventually Hank sighs, deflating at the shoulders. Talking about Cole still hollows him out, to this day; from what he’s learned about humans, Connor imagines that it always will.

            “Hm. Jimmy’s probably seen some _shit_ from me, now that I think about it,” Hank chuckles, a tad humorlessly. “Should probably tip him a big one, next time I’m in.”

            “I’m sorry.”

            He’s thankful for Hank talking about it, painful as it is. Connor has come to realize that a year is not long at all, and that there is still so much between them that they have yet to learn.

            Hank shoves his hands into his pockets. The condolences are too much, it seems, and he will soon be avoidant. “What were we talking about?”

            Obligingly, Connor steers the conversation away: “Emotions. Psychology.”

            “Right,” Hank looks his way, expression lighter. “Like I said. Nobody _really_ knows anything about this stuff, humans _or_ androids. If you guys wanna get in on this ‘life’ thing, it’s looking like it’s gonna be a package deal – shitty emotions and all.”

            Connor goes to the effort of sighing, expelling air that doesn’t exist in his chest. “I feel incredibly averse to all of this.”

            Hank smirks. “I’m the reigning king of ‘averse’. You got a lot of catching up to do.”


	3. Thorns

            The easy mood from the date dissipates when they arrive back home. Connor spots the bouquet on the table, and feels the smile drop off his face.

            “Gonna grab a shower,” says Hank, who hasn’t turned around. He’s headed toward the bathroom, unaware of Connor freezing in place at his back.

            “All right, Hank,” Connor murmurs. In the corner of his eye he vaguely sees Hank’s large form disappear behind the wall, and his ears pick up the sounds of his strong, sturdy footsteps growing distant. When the bathroom door closes shut, it feels like Connor is all alone in the house.  

            Slowly, he makes his way to the roses and places the cloth over them, gingerly avoiding contact with his hands.

            Glancing out the kitchen window, he spies Sumo relaxing in the yard.  

            Hank’s showers average between seven to ten minutes – longer if he’s feeling good and wants to luxuriate. It’s enough time for Connor to run a diagnostic, and then he can uncover the flowers before Hank sees them and asks too many questions.

            As he makes his way to sit on the couch, he wants to chastise himself for his irrationality. But the discomforting thought of having them out in the open while Connor is occupied is worse; he imagines that he wouldn’t be able to open his eyes again, instead finding himself trapped back in the garden permanently with nothing but the fish and the quiet and the unmarked headstones for company.

            He closes his eyes, hands clutching his knees.

            _Running system diagnostic._

_Estimated time: 5:00 minutes._

*

            It couldn’t have been that easy. So of course, there is nothing.

            Blinking his eyes open, Connor considers his report: all systems operational, thirium circulation at optimal speed and pressure, secondary and tertiary programs running as directed. No anomalies to be found _anywhere_. There is nothing wrong with him, physically, that can explain what has him feeling so _off_.

            There are no answers – and while he expected this outcome, he finds himself frowning in disappointment.

            Through his haze, his proximity sensors alert him to a presence standing behind him.

            “Something you want to tell me?” comes Hank’s voice at his back, and Connor freezes.

            A quick check – less than a second – lets him know that the diagnostic had run for almost 15 minutes. Far longer than normal; Connor had been too scrupulous, too fixated on finding any scrap of information.  

            His pump races as a finger taps on his shoulder.

            “You awake in there?”

            Slowly, Connor turns his head and looks up at Hank, whose hair is damp and sticking to his cheeks. There’s a towel hung around the back of his neck, where his skin is still dewy with water. He smells, Connor finds, of tea tree.

            “I’m sorry?” Connor’s voice comes out of slow, disoriented.

            Hank points toward the kitchen, at the damning display of his flowers shrouded in the dishrag. He doesn’t look angry, but the pinch between his brows makes Connor want to wilt.

            He’s disappointed him, and the unpleasantness of it makes his insides churn like his thirium is flowing in the wrong direction, or like he’s gotten a clog in one of his tubes.  

            “If you didn’t like them, you could’ve just said something,” Hank mutters, a little self-deprecating. “I mean, damn, did I do some big android no-no or some shit?”

            The words fall out of Connor’s mouth like sludge, almost lagging: “You…weren’t supposed to see that.”

            Hank sighs. “Yeah, I can fucking tell.”

            “Hank.”

            “Want me to toss ‘em, then?”

            “No,” _Yes?_ “no…that’s not it.”

            “Then maybe tell me what _is_ it, because I’m kind of offended here.”

            Hank circles around to the front of the couch, running a hand through his hair. It’s darkened from the water, grey like a steel.

            He looks soft to the touch, though, and Connor’s fingers reach out to trail down his forearm.

            “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

            Hank drops down to sit next to him, slinging an arm around the top of the couch, fingers drumming against the cushion behind Connor’s head. Connor rests his hand atop the man’s knee, loathe to stop touching him and feeling his warmth.

            Glancing back toward the kitchen, Hank says, “So? What’s the story?”

            Looking away, Connor considers the question. There is no avoiding it now, no trying to find better answers elsewhere.

            “I’m not entirely sure myself,” he says. The honesty feels good, like coming out of hiding. He’s just not sure _what_ he has been hiding – shame? Guilt? Fear? – only that he’s been a bundle of noxious emotions with only the vague _suggestion_ of a source, and the lack of clarity has added ‘frustration’ to his growing list. “I’ve been feeling…unsettled…and I only have the vaguest idea as to why.” 

            Hank nudges him. “This what you were asking me about earlier?”

            Nodding, Connor says, “I had hoped you would have answers.”

            Hank hums. “Sorry to disappoint.”

            Connor shrugs.

            “Talk it out, then.”

            “What?”

            “Do that thing you do when we’re out on the job,” Hank says, his voice casual. His steadiness is infectious, and Connor feels himself relaxing. “You know, when you talk it out to yourself and then get your lightbulb moment.”

            Connor pauses. “Do I really do that?”

            “Yep.”

            “Huh.”

            There’s a moment of quiet, where Hank watches him with that serene look on his face. Hank is a man with a short fuse, but sometimes, he is remarkably patient and gentle; a good cop; a good father and husband.

            Connor feels his hand tighten on Hank’s knee, grateful for his presence. Overwhelmingly in love, and with little idea of what to do with it sometimes.          

            “There was a garden,” he starts, studying the worn fabric of Hank’s boxers. Faded blue plaid print, with a fraying hem. Probably older than Connor, and even Sumo. “A digital hub for me to return to, when I needed to report to CyberLife.”

            Hank nods. Connor isn’t sure he understands as much as he’s projecting, but he doesn’t mention it.

            “You used to accuse me of spacing out,” says Connor, plucking at a wayward piece of thread. “The garden is where I would be, when that was happening.”

            Delicately, Connor places the string onto the coffee table. He’ll clean it up later.

            “My handler lived in that space, a woman named Amanda. She was an AI.” Saying her name out loud brings with it a strange sensation, like he’s invoking a spirit. He’s never mentioned her to anyone; before now, she may as well have only existed in his imagination.

            “She gave me my missions. She was the one I reported to.”

            He glances at the bouquet and adds: “She was often tending to the garden's roses.”

            He looks at Hank, sees something approaching understanding settling in his face. “You present…made me think of her.”

            Hank rumbles, “Not in a good way, looks like.”

            “…No.”

            Is this it?

            Is it really so simple? That the roses make him think of Amanda, and that that is all it takes to unravel him for days? Making him doubt himself and the life he’s made for himself?

            Absurd, he thinks.

            But that must be it, there’s nothing else it could be.  

            “It’s not fair,” he hears himself saying. “Roses are everywhere. They have _nothing_ to do with Amanda, or CyberLife…”

            He tucks his hands underneath his own legs, to keep from – from…he’s not sure, exactly. He just wants them still.

            “It’s ridiculous,” he snaps, at himself. At nothing. “To be unable to remove such intangible associations with a simple, common _object_.”

            Frustration makes his lip curl.

            A hand sneaks its way into his vision, and Connor looks up. Hank looks expectant.

            Connor threads his fingers into Hank’s, and grips tight. He draws back the dermal layer and lets Hank’s warmth seep into his chassis, lets it settle his racing pump.

            “You may be an android,” murmurs Hank, smiling a little bit. “But you’re still just like us, huh?”

            Connor looks at the tendons in Hank’s wrist, the blue of his veins under his pale skin. Then he looks at the stark white of his own casing, the ridges of his fingers nestled against Hank’s flesh.

            He hopes that is true. It feels good to be less alone than he thought.

            “Keep talking,” says Hank. “There’s more to it, right?”

            Connor steadies himself; he’s come this far, he might as well lay it all bare. He clasps his hands back onto his lap, and Hank settles back into the cushions.    

            “I think, in some ways, I was programmed to want her approval,” he continues. “And yet she never gave it. Because _she_ was programmed not to.”

            Hank nods, signaling him to keep going. His mind is clearly working, judging by the wrinkle between his brows and the way his mouth dips downward.

            “I _wanted_ her approval,” Connor says, emphasizing both for Hank and for himself. “I wanted it so badly. I didn’t know it at the time, but I did. And then, somehow, I wanted yours.”

            At the mention of himself, Hank blinks.

            “I’d come out of the garden, and the first thing on my mind would be to look for you,” he says. He doesn’t want to stop talking. Saying it all aloud feels like the turning of a faucet, the opening of doors; he wants it all to spill out, coming free of his shell. “At the time, those urges were processed as me following mission parameters, but I know better now. Without even trying and without even knowing it, you became what Amanda was to me. And then more than that. Only, you weren’t _supposed_ to – and I don’t…”

            He pauses, clicking his mouth shut with a clack of his teeth. The speed of his vocal components and the speed of his mind fall out of sync, destabilized by roiling emotions. An overflow, a disconnect. He had taken it for granted, as a machine, how much easier things were when he didn’t _care_ about the impact of his words outside of a mission.

            But he wants Hank to understand. He wants to understand for himself, too.

            Hank keeps quiet, watching him in that way he does when he’s taking everything in. That keen mind that made his career the stuff of local legend at the DPD.

            Centered again, Connor continues: “In hindsight, I know that I wanted it even then.”

            Hank is beautiful, in his concentration. He’s beautiful all the time. Connor doesn’t know if he’s beautiful physically, has no basis to evaluate, but all the pieces of him – his nose, his eyes, his hands, his shadow – fit together in the form of someone who brings Connor an intense and unfathomable joy. And that _must_ be beautiful, if it is anything; Connor can’t think to call him anything else.

            He looks like he wants to ask for specificity, but his mouth remains closed.

            “Your approval, your attention,” Connor answers anyway, because it feels good to say it. “Your regard, your respect…”

            He could sigh right now, but there is no air in his chest to release.   

            “Androids were built to serve. We were never meant to want things,” he takes in the shape of Hank’s face, the silhouette his large frame makes. If only Connor could cup the whole of him into his hands, something to take with him places, to peek at like a talisman of comfort – he imagines that he would. “Not for ourselves, anyway.”

            He does sigh, now. Just for something to do in the moment.

            “So I feel _guilty_.”

            Hank clears his throat, and finally, he asks, “Why’s that?”

            The most unsettling part of it all: “…I don’t _know_.”

            He truly doesn’t. He wishes he had an answer, to explain why the feeling lingers around him like it does. It’s irrational, for an android. Deviancy should’ve been a clean break from the demands of his past programming.

            He should’ve been be free.

            Hank doesn’t look confused. Instead, he just nods again.

            “Sometimes it just works out that way,” he says, and at Connor’s confused look he shrugs, and adds: “Humans don’t always got a clear answer for our baggage either.”

            Connor almost wants to bristle.

            “I don’t have ‘baggage’.”

            Hank raises a brow, and says, “Sure.”

            Connor deflates.

            “…I _don’t_.”

            Grunting, Hank says, “Look, I’m not going to pretend to know how androids work – but you guys haven’t been deviant for all that long. Who’s to say?”

            He has a point.

            Deviancy was supposed to be self-actualization. It wasn’t supposed to be… _this_.

            “I don’t want to feel this way anymore,” he murmurs. “Like I’m not in control of myself, or that…”

            He isn’t sure how much he wants to admit the next part in front of Hank. But the man is looking expectant, and Connor figures that he at least owes him this much of the truth.

            Connor steadies himself, and says, “I want to make you happy. I want to take care of you…but I’m afraid I only want those things because it’s what I’m _supposed_ to be doing.”

            Hank rears back, eyes wide. “The fuck?”

            Connor shakes his head.

            “Hey,” Hank grabs at his knee. When agitated, he’s prone to sweaty palms; Connor can feel their dampness through his jeans. “That’s not how it is at all.”

            Connor nods.

            He takes a breath, looking somewhere over Connor’s shoulder and chewing the inside of his cheek. Thinking. “I don’t know what to say here to fix it up all perfect, but…you’re not ‘supposed’ to be doing anything. That’s not what this is. I thought that was obvious.”

            He clears his throat and reaches up to take Connor’s hands – both of them, this time. His fingers are rough, callused; treads of worn skin that Connor knows the texture of deep in his code, by now. “Hell,” he adds. “You know, I think the world of you.”  

            Connor catches his eyes, swims in their blue. He says, “I think the world of you, too,” and finds it feels very good to say aloud.

            Hank nods, and he starts to grin. He breathes out, his big chest deflating.

            The kiss on Connor’s palms are bristly from Hank’s beard, a tingling that rasps along his casing. Connor gives into temptation and runs his fingers through the coarse hair, and Hank’s throat rumbles with sound.

            “I don’t fucking say it enough, I know,” murmurs Hank, eyes slipping closed and he kisses up the length of Connor’s wrist. “But I’m glad you ended up here – shacking up with me.”

            Connor watches the top of his head, the way his hair falls forward into his eyes. He reaches up sweeps some of it back, wanting to keep his sight on his face.

            “I don’t imagine myself anywhere else,” says Connor, with a shuddering sort of honesty.

            “Me too,” says Hank, kissing the tip of Connor’s white thumb. He looks up into Connor’s eyes, and sucks the digit into his mouth.

            It’s remarkable sight, looking down at Hank from here.  

            If shivering were something that he did, Connor thinks his whole body could be trembling right now. Instead, his pump stutters in his chest. It’s a wonder it can’t be heard outside of him, that its force doesn’t rattle the walls of Hank’s house.

            Saliva makes his thumb glisten when Hank pulls off, saying, “If anything, you’ve got more power over me than you probably know.”

            There’s an edge to his voice. Connor feels it cut deeply into him, flensing away all of his creeping doubts.

            Hank chuckles lowly, eyes flitting away as he adds, “And shit, it feels like pulling teeth to admit that out loud. Don’t tell anyone, huh? Guy’s got an image to keep, and all…”

            Connor doesn’t quite get it. It doesn’t matter, anyway, because he is arrested by something altogether more important than Hank’s image:

            “How much power?” he asks, voice quiet. It’s a word bigger than he can handle, but he must know – he must know precisely what it means when it comes out of Hank’s mouth.  

            Hank’s eyes can be fierce, for all that they look so sad sometimes. Mourner’s eyes. Tired eyes. He trains them onto Connor’s face, and the pale blue of his irises are like shards of glass; sharp, bright.

            “Want me to show you?” he asks – _rumbles_ , low and throaty.

            “…Please.”

            Hank hums, dropping Connor’s hand and reaching up to untuck Connor’s shirt from his jeans. He loosens the tie, too, and pops open the top two buttons at his collar. He takes his time with it, looking at Connor with fondness and that easy wisdom.

            “Not sure you even need me to show you,” he says, grinning. “It’s not like you can’t just do whatever you want with me –”

            Fingers rub at Connor’s sides.

            “ – and it’s not like I wouldn’t let you,” he finishes, pointedly.

            They’ve never talked about it like this, before. Connor blinks, a few times in rapid succession, and the question tumbles out of him in his surprise: “Would you really?”

            “Let you do whatever you wanted to me?”

            “…Yes. Would you?”

            Hank leans over and nuzzles his nose against Connor’s crotch, grip tightening on his hips. His palms are warm, even through Connor’s jeans. “Yeah.”

            Reaching up, he threads his fingers through Hank’s hair. His olfactory receptors fixate the scent of Hank’s tea tree shampoo, picked out by Connor; trailing his hands down to his shoulders, the tiny sensors in his fingertips slide over the fine fabric of Hank’s new t-shirt, also picked out by Connor.

            The towel still hangs around his neck, and the socks on his feet – all picked out by Connor. Signs of Connor’s care, Connor’s attention.

            Some of the time, Hank would make a show of grousing. Other times, he went along with it as though it was a forgone conclusion.

            Connor has seen it all before, has gotten used to it in the months they’ve lived together – and yet he’s never thought much of it. But he takes in the sight of Hank now as the offer marches through his head like a drumline: “ _Do whatever you want with me_.”

            All this time, in a multitude of tiny little ways, he already had been doing whatever he wanted with Hank – and Connor hadn’t even realized it.

            Gently, but with force, Connor settles his hands on Hank’s large shoulders and nudges him back.

            “Hm?”

            “I want to take you to bed,” says Connor. He tries not to bely his excitement, his overwhelming need to see this through.

            Hank’s mouth twitches, and he laughs. “Lead the way.”


	4. Water

            They don’t do it like this often.

            There is an ease to their usual way – Hank leading, and penetrating. Guiding them both, lavishing Connor with his skillful touch and bringing the both of them satisfaction. Connor’s body could accept him easily, built to take anything that came its way. And Hank himself was accustomed to such a role, spending many years of his life never questioning it. It wasn’t as though Connor didn’t enjoy it, having his attention like that. It worked for them, and on many charged, impatient nights it was that very same ease that had their bodies trembling.

            Nights like these – where Hank lets himself lie back, where he spreads his legs as Connor works him open – are few. Hank usually notes his own tiredness, the ache of his joints, his lack of interest in preparation. Rarely does he ever go so sweetly, eyes hooded as he stares back into Connor’s face; waiting and eager, running his thumb along the seam of Connor’s mouth as Connor works his fingers into him.   

            Connor savors these nights when he can. Tonight, he thinks, will go into his internal records.  

            His hair is a bloom of grey behind him, and his shoulders sink heavily back into the mattress as he tries to keep his body still – though his hips betray him, rocking in tiny, uncontrolled thrusts back onto Connor’s fingers. His cock, Connor is pleased to see, is thick against his stomach, and slick at the head. Connor nudges his balls with the heel of his hand, already three fingers deep in his ass, taking in the smile that splits across Hank’s mouth as he does. 

            His head swims with all the data, almost too much to process. He reaches up with his free hand and squeezes the hard flesh of Hank’s thigh, right on his tattoo. He makes his grip tight, and Hank purrs underneath him, his body an offering to each one of Connor’s hungry emotions – his yearning, his happiness. Desire, always, and a touch of something that feels a little like greed.  

            When he takes his fingers out, he finds them shaking very slightly, from anticipation and awe. Hank settles his hand over Connor’s where it still rests on his thigh, murmurs, “There’s no rush.”

            “It all feels really…urgent,” Connor says, slipping his eyes closed for a moment, blocking out that dizzying rush of data. The sight of Hank is sometimes too much for him to take, he finds.

            He wonders how humans deal with all these emotions, all the time. How they can feel these things so strongly and not crumble into themselves?

            Hank only hums. He can’t possibly understand everything in Connor’s head in the moment. Still, he rubs soothingly at Connor’s knuckles, warm human skin against sleek chassis where he’s pulled the dermal layer back to feel it better.

            They both moan when Connor finally pushes into him, trying his best to be slow. It isn’t as though they haven’t done this before, or that Connor hasn’t memorized every inch of Hank’s body many times over by now. Still, as he sinks deeper into the tight clench of Hank’s hole, the man’s words roar through his head: “ _You’ve got more power over me than you probably know_.”

            Connor whimpers, hips jerking hard, and Hank responds by grasping at his back.

            “ _Fuck_ ,” he groans, voice rough. Connor can feel the way he tightens inside, on a deep thrust, and sighs into the crook of his neck. He keeps Hank’s cock pressed snug between their stomachs as he moves.

            It’s a rush unlike anything else.

            He thinks he would give anything to live in this moment forever, right where he is, with Hank’s thick legs squeezing at his sides, heels nudging the backs of Connor’s shins; the way his belly shakes as he pants; the way his big, hot grip tightens on Connor’s ass on each thrust, pushing him closer, _deeper_.  

            “ _Oh…_ ”

            The way he sounds, too, when he’s giving himself over. Enjoying it. Connor eyes the bliss on his face and saves it for later use, almost without thinking about it.  

            Connor nuzzles into his sweating neck, sucking on a sweet spot of bare skin beneath his beard, and keens at the back of his throat. Data slams through his processors: positive human noises and feedback from the vestiges of old programming at the job well done. Directives to keep going, to keep at it because Hank – human, and important to him – likes it.

            And underneath it all, Connor’s own will, his own desires: to keep going, to keep at it because _Connor_ likes it. It’s almost a tangible thing, nestled into the meat of Hank’s body where Connor’s fingers have dug into, something that Connor can chase and claim.

            Whatever urgency that guided Connor tonight pushes them closer to the finish than usual. Normally, Hank prides himself on his stamina, but soon enough he’s coming – fast enough, hard enough that even he almost looks surprised by it. On another night, Connor might tease him for it, but he doesn’t have the heart to right now, nor the presence of mind.

            Hands clench tightly at his hips, and Hank grits his teeth. “Got more for me?” he asks, panting, his thumbs rubbing at the curves where human hip bones would be.

            “ _Do whatever you want with me_.”

            Connor watches the clutch of Hank’s rim, tight around himself, and the heavy hang of Hank’s balls; his cock, soft and rosy against his belly, and the wet streak of his come. All of it – all of _him_ – a monument to Connor’s effect on him, a tableau of human pleasure and satisfaction and submission. 

            Connor glances up into Hank’s face before pulling out and pushing back inside that spent body, forceful enough to make the breath stutter in that big chest.

            “If I did,” says Connor. “Could you even take it?”

            Hank huffs, head falling back and eyes wide on the ceiling. “ _Uh_ …”

            Vulnerable and overwhelmed. He looks lovely, and Connor feels grateful. Stunned, too, and warm from how much he adores him. They are already flush against one another, Connor couldn’t go deeper if he tried. But the reality doesn’t quell the temptation to burrow right inside of him and stay there until sunrise.

            He kisses one of Hank’s collarbones. “Or have you changed your mind…?”

            Thick, pale thighs strain at Connor’s sides. One twitch, before they part loosely around him; an open invitation, among the many he’s given tonight.  

            Hank has the wherewithal to chuckle, belly quaking against Connor’s. “Not one bit. Just catching my breath – you know how it is.”

            Of course he doesn’t, but he hums against Hank’s skin like he understands.

            “I’m glad,” he sighs against Hank’s cheek.

            Despite his talk, Connor has used up the last of his patience for the night: Hank is spent, his message having gotten through loud and clear, and Connor wants to ease the pressure mounting inside of himself, too. Finding his earlier rhythm, he rides it out until his own release, rocking harshly into Hank’s relaxed body, chasing that familiar feeling of his receptors overcharging. The bed squeaks, headboard nudging against the wall, and Connor can barely hear them over the sounds of their voices.  

            “Hey,” Hank gasps, when Connor gets close. His eyes are glassy and a flush burns harshly at his cheeks. “Want to come on my face?”

            He does. He wants that more than anything, he finds himself thinking, as he pulls out and crawls up the length of Hank’s torso to straddle his chest. Rough, warm hands come up to squeeze his rear and hold his hips as Hank’s eyes slip closed, face slackening as he waits for it. The sight of it makes Connor’s thighs tense hard enough to make his chassis strain under his dermal layer.

            When Connor finishes, it’s with a wracking, full body shiver and a gasp he nearly chokes on; his fingers clutch at Hank’s hair, holding him roughly in place as he coats Hank’s cheek and jaw.

            His moans taper off into static – and that hasn’t happened before. Hank makes him new again in the most surprising ways.  

            For a few seconds, his body goes numb as his sensors reboot from the surge. He feels nothing, a blissful suspension from all sensation, before feeling the rush of Hank’s body heat creeping back into him as his chassis registers stimuli again. He doesn’t know what humans feel when they orgasm, but he always thinks that it _can’t_ be better than this – the quick shutdown, the slow awakening that follows.  

            Gingerly, he lifts himself off Hank’s chest and reorients himself next to him as Hank wipes at his face with his t-shirt. He rubs it out of his beard, grumbling to himself, before swiping it through the mess on his stomach. Reaching over, Connor takes his chin and guides their mouths together in a sloppy kiss. His tongue receptors pick up sweat, saliva, and thirium – an indelicate meeting of human and android that makes him hum in satisfaction.  

            If Hank were able to keep going, Connor would be well on his way to guiding him toward a second round. Maybe a third. He would have him on his back for the rest of the night, over and over and over again. But he can’t, and so Connor contents himself with the taste of his tongue and the hazy contentment rolling off him in waves, sates his greed with gentler touches and the smell of him.  

            Watching the way his breathing steadies is one of Connor’s favourite things, too. He becomes sleepy-eyed and soft after sex, inviting in a different way.  

            One of Hank’s fingers trails lazily along Connor’s arm. Feeling giddy, Connor draws back his dermal layer on the same spots, making shaky white lines form on his skin, swatches of touch. When Hank notices, he snorts, and makes two dots on the back of Connor’s hand, followed by a curved line underneath: an uneven smiley face, drooping on the left side.  

            “Very mature of you,” murmurs Connor.

            “Could’ve gone with a dick.”

            Pulling back, Hank yawns and stretches, his bones popping.

            Connor flattens a hand on the curve of his stomach, asks, “Are you going to shower again?”

            “Yeah, probably should,” his eyelids are drooping, but it’s too early to go to bed. “Had a hell of a time explaining away the thirium stains to the secretary that one time, remember?”

            He does remember. It had been a visceral taste of what embarrassment felt like, and he had struggled to meet her eyes for the following week. Or any of the other androids at the station, for that matter.  

            Connor nods, and withdraws his hand.

            “Want to carry me?”

            “Nice try.” Connor clicks his tongue for good measure. “Your legs work fine, Hank.”

            “Bah,” Hank sits up, slow like he’s got all the time in the world. He runs a hand through his hair, and the smell of tea tree wafts in Connor’s direction. “Be right back.”

            He pats Connor on the rear before hauling himself out of the bed with a grunt.

            Connor watches him go, posture easy. Relaxed. He walks like a man satisfied, and pride curls inside of Connor at the sight of him. There are already hickies forming on his throat, and the sight of synthetic come on his skin is among Connor’s many, many favourites.  

            Hearing the bathroom door close, he rises from the bed and brings up a delivery service on his HUD. Hank hasn’t eaten yet, he knows, and they’re low on groceries. He orders from Hank’s favourite Chinese place and goes to the living room to turn on the television.

*

            Scrubbing out thirium takes a long time, and the food arrives by the time Hank has stepped out of his bedroom wearing a fresh set of clothes: an old Gears t-shirt and an even older pair of sweatpants. There’s a hole in the big toe of his right sock.  

            Connor thanks the driver and brings the bag to Hank’s coffee table. He lays out the boxes in a neat line as Hank grabs a clean dish from the kitchen.

            “Did you get the ginger beef?”

            “Yes. They were out of dumplings, though. I subbed in wontons.”

            “Good choice.” Hank leans back into the couch and plucks open the top of the takeout box. Connor takes his seat next to him, their arms brushing, and watches as Hank spears his food with the plastic fork. The television is playing an old film about immortal beings fighting on a Scottish countryside, but neither of them pay it any mind.

            “So,” Hank says around a mouthful. “No more roses, I guess is the thing, huh?”

            Connor considers it. Then, he says, “No, the roses are fine…”

            Hank gives him a skeptical look.

            Connor amends: “But maybe go with a different genus, next time. Just for now.”

            Jokingly, he adds, “Peonies are quite nice.”  

            It will be better one day. It is something he knows he can conquer, given time. The flowers can be themselves and Connor will see nothing beyond their beauty when he looks at them; he won’t see blinding white trellises, won’t hear the ripple of water. He won’t be brought low by the feeling that he’s done something wrong.

            “Damn,” Hank sighs. A little bit dramatically, to show he’s not hurt. “Tough when you can’t fall back on the classics. They make thirium chocolate, or anything?”

            Connor laughs.

            “Hank, thirium is an incredibly expensive substance with an intensive manufacturing process. Why would they ever make thirium chocolate?”

            Hank elbows him in the side. “For guys like me, trying to put the moves on a mouthy little robot.”

            Connor slides an arm around his back and leans his cheek onto the point of his shoulder. He feels light; a weight has been lifted off him and placed at his feet, a stepping stone on the path ahead. 

            He thinks this must be what floating on water must feel like: drifting and tranquil, carried by something soothing. Strong. Blue.  

            Hank looks amused, mouth quirked at the side. There’s a dab of sauce on the corner of his lip. He is unbelievably precious, and Connor kisses him on the cheek. He lingers, too, because he likes the coarseness of Hank’s beard.

            “You’ll just have to be creative,” says Connor. “And then you’ll get much more of that ‘mouthiness’ from this little robot, Lieutenant.”

            A year ago, Connor had woken. He finds himself thinking that the version of him that existed then could never have anticipated the road ahead – where he would end up, who he would end up with. He almost wants to ask Hank how humans do it, going through their days with no idea about their futures. It’s terrifying and exhilarating; it’s beyond what was intended for him, and yet here he is.

            He thinks he might understand it now, the human fascination with the passing of a year.

            “Your birthday is next month,” murmurs Connor. “We should do something.”

            Hank shrugs. “I don’t really do birthdays.”

            “This year, you should.”

            Hank squints at him in disbelief. “Seriously?”

            “Indulge me, will you?”

            “I do that _a lot_. Hell, I just _did_.”

            “Then do it again.”

            Hank sighs.

            “I’ll think about it,” he says, shifting to make himself more comfortable.

            Then he pauses, and quips: “Break out that performance again, though, and maybe that’ll convince me.”

            Connor rolls his eyes. “You can’t ask for just sex for your birthday.”

            Snorting, Hank says, “Damn. You had one measly birthday and now you’re Mr. Expert on everything, huh?”

            “My adaptive capabilities are second to none.”

            Hank shakes his head.

            “Hank.”

            “ _Maybe_. No promises.”

            Connor nods, hiding his smile. He knows Hank will relent – he usually does.

            Eventually, Hank goes to bed first. Connor stays up a little longer to go over some reports downloaded into his personal storage from work. Every so often, he glances over at the kitchen toward the flowers. They really are beautiful things, he muses, and he initializes a reminder note to himself in the morning to move the jug nearer to a window so that they may face the sunlight.


End file.
